noticing joy on the surface of simple things … the evidence of holiness happening in the daily grind.

Day 3: My Specialty October 3, 2013

On a tropical day during an enthusiastic cooking conversation with a fellow foodie, I was asked what my specialty is.

I blurted out, “I don’t know, cinnamon rolls, baked beans, homemade pizza? Both the question and the answer bothered me the rest of the night. No one had ever asked me that before and I really didn’t know if I had a specialty.

I just like to cook. I like to cook for people. What I make is delicious and ordinary and lacks in fancy presentation. As a cupcake is a vehicle to frosting, or a chip to salsa, so the food I prepare is a vehicle for conversation, connection, community.

We bought a square table that seats eight so when guests join us everyone can hear well and be part of what’s happening. No one gets left out down on the end. A large lazy-susan sits in the center making it easy to spin butter and salt, more potatoes and salad to whoever needs it. The person telling a joke or sharing a story has a captive small group audience. One evening I threw out this table topic: “What is something you’ve done that might surprise the rest of us?” If it were not for the square table we may have missed the one quieter guest. She put down her fork, and said, “spending the night in a mexican jail.” She then picked her fork back up and started eating again. The room got loud with questions and comments and the demand she stop eating and share the detailed version.

Food invites people to join in, maybe even helps make people comfortable so they will engage. That has been my experience. Most of the time we have people over is in the evening. Most of the time I spend preparing food, even on ordinary days, is for the evening meal. I’ve decided that my specialty is dinner.

It could be that my specialty has its roots in my early years of learning. More correctly stated; being forced to learn. Mother Mary (my mother) was determined to teach cooking to this strong-willed daughter. My memory is that she MADE me make something every other weekend. It seemed to be a silly thing for me to cook bad when everything she made was so wonderful. Ask anyone about her cooking to this very day – you leave wanting more, wanting the recipe, wanting to come over again. She won. I cooked. I learned to make one whole meal and repeated it because Father Andrew (my dad) loved it. The Menu: “Coating For Chicken” , twice baked potatoes, and cream puffs with vanilla custard, topped with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. There may have been something vegetable as well, I just have no memory of that.

Sorry mom for all the grief I provided. Thanks mom for teaching me to cook good.

Tonight, one of the house favorites: homemade pizza with JR’s favorite crust. Which could I guess be a specialty within the specialty.

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One Response to “Day 3: My Specialty”

Dear Laura, Your blogs are the first ones I ever read. And they are well written and thoughtful. I don’t know where you got your writing talent. I know that the DeWitt girls almost all were writers. Aunt Mary wrote a children’s natural column for the banner. She was a teacher and went to Calvin. Aunt Cora wrote a memoir and other DeWitt girls did, too. Mother had to leave school at fifteen because her father needed her to cook and keep house on the farm. After she gave up her chance at high school, Uncle George wanted to marry Gertrude Folkersma and she didn’t like mother. So Grandpa De Witt told mother to leave home and go to Grand Rapids and get a job. So she did and married Sam Ploegstra and had 8 children, Betty, Ardith, Harold, Fred, Bob, Marilyn, Andy and Genie. Mother could cook, sew, paint, and wallpaper. While bringing up 8 children she managed to get a job as a cook at the hospital and later at a small restaurant. I don’t think we appreciated her enough. She played the organ in the Rudyard church without any thanks, either. She never got paid for anything she did. Dad liked apple pie so once when she served one of her pies at dinner, nobody said anything about how they liked it. So she asked Dad if it was good. He replied “I ate it, didn’t I?” This is a rather long comment in reply to your blog. Love, Ardith